I cloud over like a winters day
Foggy grey as far as the eye can see,
but to you, the way forward
would appear to be clear,
well-lit and signposted
with arrows to point the way.
I am scrabbling in the dirt
with my words falling out in vomit clouds.
I hurt from every aching limb
mysteriously flaring up again.
Filled with doubt and pain.
and a brain that is circling the plughole,
teetering, ready to fall in.
I get fearful in crowded rooms,
I get fearful when I’m alone.
I get tearful as I try to leave my home
and the open doorway is barring my way.
The invisible barrier of the invisible disease.
Your view gets narrower, harder to see
a future where you don’t end up cowering,
fighting to get hold of your sanity
as it flails around just out of grasp.
Gasp. shock. Look at the time on the clock.
Its spinning so fast yet I feel I’m struck in a rut.
Is it too painful to say the thoughts that I store up?
The thoughts where I cut.
My mood dips deep into the depths
way beyond safe limits,
my ears pop from the pressure
and deeper still. It won’t stop.
Down. Down. Down.
Quick apply the soothing sounds.
I’m drowning in my own chaos
and I need to be pulled back to safer ground.
Then my mood flips I surface too quick
The bends hit and I’m sick
Really sick.
My fingertips digging a grave
and my nails torn at the quick.
On the surface a smile but behind the eyes
I’m in a whirlwind of untold power.
Winds whistling thousands of miles an hour,
my thoughts scattered through the air
like stray leaves on an autumn pathway
kicked into the Jetstream.
I want someone to see me,
to catch me, to hold me when I fall,
but I also want to be invisible to all.
I become hyper fixated.
Eyes dilated like I’m high as a kite,
flying with the birds in a calm sky,
but everything else is a blur of traffic
soaring past, a collision waiting to happen
as I walk blind into the road ahead.
But on the surface. All is calm.
Mental health isn’t the same as a broken arm
or an easily signposted disease,
It is insidious. It gets inside and feasts,
leaving a shell that appears to be functioning.
but all the time the alarms are blaring,
the lights are blinking. Destruction is incoming,
and all you can do is stare into space and smile.
All the while the fake smile leaves a bad taste,
but to admit its fake means you have to explain all of this,
and people will reply, oh cheer up, you look fine.
Your illness isn’t real you’re just workshy. Its all in your mind.
And I can’t reply, though I want cry how many days
I’ve spent not leaving my bed, I want to show them
what it feels like to have a steam train careering through my head,
but my mouth dries, my tongue severs itself from my mouth
and hides in my quaking guts,
my illness has made me want to die
more times than I care to admit.
But it’s not a real illness. Okay, I sigh.
Thanks for reading
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https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff
continue to do this.
Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle
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